


Come Home

by bowstring



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24699853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowstring/pseuds/bowstring
Summary: Five years ago, Viktor and Yuuri took a clean break, but made a promise to find each other again.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Come Home

The key sits in a small glass jar, gathering dust in a glove compartment. The Toyota, bought when he first learned to drive, is crammed in the corner of his city home’s garage. It’s been years since Viktor used it, let alone opened it. On regular days, Viktor barely even spares a glance at that old thing, preferring instead his gloss-bodied Maserati.  


Today though, he drives the Maserati only to move it out of the old car’s way.  


As he drives past the skyscrapers, the smoke-filled roads, and the main city highways, the key tinkles against its glass container. Viktor imagines its original, so near yet so out of reach, and wonders if it’s feeling just as lonely.

  


* * *

  


The original key isn’t stowed away nor buried in dust; it instead sits on a trophy case, for Yuuri to glance at every now and then if only to remind him that it exists. Yuuri takes it now and examines its ridges, metal surface peppered with scratches, a minuscule dent at its handle from when it was forcibly yanked from a key ring.  


Yuuri imagines turning it and opening the door to find someone waiting for him. Someone to say _welcome home_ when he announces his arrival. A set of arms wide open for him to fall into.  


He puts it back between trophies before he could entertain the thought of coming back today—their anniversary—like they promised five years ago. The weight of that promise presses down his chest because he knows it’s doubtlessly pointless to keep it.

  
His phone rings, yanking him from his thoughts. “Phichit? What’s the matter?”

  


* * *

  


The organizers start losing their minds in increments. The event head, Phichit, had barely managed to gather his crew in an emergency meeting.  


“Relax, Phichit,” Leo, says. “He’s known for being fashionably late, isn’t he?”  


Photographer Guang-Hong barges in on their meeting and exclaims, “Oh _no_ —”  


“What is it, Guang-Hong?” asks Phichit.  


“Viktor’s _not in the city_.”  


The anxious air solidifies into full-on panic. Futile questions like _where did he go_ , _where did he run off to,_ _why did he leave_ flood the room like loose change in an already bulging pocket.  


“This event is going live in two hours.” Phichit reminds them, his voice cutting through the room like a judge’s gavel. “Anyone got ahold of Plisetsky yet?”  


“Just voicemail.”  


Phichit fires commands as calmly as he can, while his finger hovers over the number of his last resort. Over the course of a ten-minute pandemonium listing possible proxies, they learn more about Nikiforov’s acquaintances than they’d ever cared to ask before.  


Leo suggests, “Jean-Jacques Leroy? He’s CEO of their partner company, he’d surely be happy to step in—”  


“Are you insane?” Guang-Hong interrupts. “Do you want the headlines tomorrow to be filled with news of our dead bodies chopped and buried across the city?”  


“Plisetsky will be livid.” Phichit confirms. “Try him again. I’ll be contacting someone else.”  


Phichit remembers cry-swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks from five years ago, coupled with broken sobs against a breathalyzer reading high blood alcohol content. He pictures that side-by-side with the bright face of nowadays, only ever facing the horizon to look to the future, rather than to long for the past. He remembers the key still sitting on the glass trophy case, not keen on being forgotten.  


He prepares an apology in advance, and dials.

  


* * *

  


“Aren’t you at the awarding ceremony?”  


“Viktor’s gone somewhere, and we need someone to accept the award on his behalf.”  


“He’s not … there? Does anyone know where he went?”  


“No clue, but the event starts soon—Yuuri? Hello?”

  


* * *

  


“Someone call JJ,” Phichit says, final.  


That night, Jean-Jacques Leroy accepts the award on Viktor’s behalf, and much to everyone’s chagrin—none to their surprise—he ends up talking more about himself than about the awardee. Phichit laughs at the videos so hard tears bloom in the corners of his eyes.  


They find out eventually that Plisetsky had flat-out refused to accept the award on Viktor's behalf; he’d said that the only awards he’d be accepting onstage are the ones he’d earned for himself because he’s more than “Yuri Plisetsky, future CEO of Nikiforov Co.,” he’s also Dr. Yuri Plisetsky, a promising prodigy with a PhD in economics at age fifteen. Phichit laughs again when he hears this, and files this away in the list of things Viktor and Yuuri missed that day, so he could properly catch them up when they finally decide to return to the city.

  


* * *

  


The sunset guides Yuuri’s way forward. Driving down the familiar narrow streets, he sees that trees have long since been replaced with commercial buildings and convenience stores, white fog with grey smoke, stone sidewalks with cemented ones. But for all the changes that marred his memory of what this place once looked like, Yuuri takes comfort in the road intersection where _left_ still means _bakery_ and _right_ still means _home._  


When he reaches his destination, the sight chokes the breath out of his lungs: the old Toyota is parked in the driveway as if it had never left, and the faded yellow curtains are pushed open to let in the light of the sinking sun. He parks next to the old car, retrieves the key from his pocket, and presses its ridges against the skin of his palm.  


As he reaches the door to slide the key home, he recalls their arguments about ordering repairs for the loud goddamn door. Yuuri smiles at the irony; the sound of it creaking open now can’t even hold a candle to the deafening drumbeat of his pulse.  


He pushes the door all the way open and announces, “I’m home.”  


The sunset paints silver hair agleam with dim sepia undertones, making Viktor look like he was plucked from an old movie. His face cracks a smile so wide it bridges all the years they’ve spent apart.  


A key clatters to the ground as Viktor’s arms spread wide open, inviting Yuuri in. “Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'M SO GLAD I guessed your birthday right hahahaha! Here's a gift. Happy birthday, Lee. I really really miss you.*teary-eyed emoji*
> 
> One day, we'll be reunited too <3


End file.
